Gunpowder, Gelatine
by merlinmercury
Summary: Abaddon remembers the moment that her eyes first opened an inky black. She remembers the power of it, feeling as though she could dodge any arrow or dagger—not that she even needed to. She remembers Lucifer most clearly of all, the thrumming of the air and the quaking of what seemed like the very foundations of hell in his presence.


_She's a killer queen,_  
_gunpowder, gelatine,_  
_dynamite with a laser beam,_  
_guaranteed to blow your mind._

* * *

Abaddon remembers the moment that her eyes first opened an inky black. She remembers the power of it, feeling as though she could dodge any arrow or dagger—not that she even needed to. She remembers Lucifer most clearly of all, the thrumming of the air and the quaking of what seemed like the very foundations of hell in His presence.

She remembers when He looked upon her, named her: Abaddon, the destroyer.

At first there were flashes left of who she used to be—if she tries to recall them now they feel like photographs too poorly developed to really make out, photographs of someone else's life that have been misplaced amongst her own. The girl, who was her but who she is not, has no name. A slave girl, even when her name was everything she had it was probably worth little to anyone, so it's hardly any matter that it's forgotten now. Now that she has another name, bestowed upon her by her own king, her own god, who stretched a hand out towards her one day and picked her out from the crowd of smoky figures. She can picture the nameless girl grinding her knuckles away against a washboard by the river, and she can picture her drenched in blood that isn't hers, a knife in one hand and her master's heart in the other.

Time flows differently in hell than it does when one is walking the earth, but she knows it didn't take very long to change her into what she is now, to take her soul and perfect it, make it strong.

She remembers Lilith, vividly—a beautiful, terrifying mistress of white, the very first of demon kind and still quite young herself in those days. Lilith who hollowed out her stomach, reached in so elegantly and snapped her ribs one by one, scratched agony into her soul until the definition of suffering itself had been rewritten; until the taste of blood became sweet and the scent of sulphur was like breathing in against a lover's neck. Lilith, who kissed her broken lips when it was done and presented her to Lucifer as a work of art.

When Abaddon leapt from halfway through what the humans counted as the twentieth century straight into the twenty-first, the death of Lilith came as a surprise. If Lilith had been sacrificed then Lucifer should have been free, should have been ruling or warring for the throne—and yet she could find no sign of Him and barely a loyalist among the demons she met; the god of hell Himself seemed to have been defeated. Abaddon looked at the world and could not find a soul who had won at all.

She knew then that she would have to do the winning herself.

Abaddon remembers the day that Lucifer was locked away, the first time—the day the archangels, His mindless brothers, all but butchered Him and left Him to rot, to rule over hell from its darkest corner. She was afforded no more than a few seconds' joy in hearing of His escape before discovering that He had been sent back to the cage despite the careful breaking of the sixty-six seals, the raising of the four horsemen, the taking of the true vessel.

Chief among Lucifer's army, and she had missed the day that demons marched upon the earth.

She learned that it was the very men into whose time and whose residence she had followed Henry Winchester that were responsible for thwarting Lucifer's master plan. Abaddon remembers the raging need for vengeance that grew inside her as she found herself trapped and torn to pieces at the mercy of those same men. It feeds her, now, as she plans all the things she'll do to the Winchesters once they are hers.

Sam, of course, belongs to Lucifer, though she will all too happily teach him some humility if He were to decree it. Dean, though... she's heard all about the kind of plaything Dean makes, protesting, steadfast in his stubborn sense of what's right through long decades of torture—a strong, silent type, defiant until you uncover his soft parts, the parts that make him wail brokenly for a mother and father and brother all cost their lives by a war so much more cosmic than they ever expected, for a family he cannot save—not when he's down on the racks of hell, but not when he's up on the surface either, no matter how hard he tries, has tried since he could walk and talk. Scratch and scrape at the guilt and insecurity long enough and Dean will break—and that is where the fun will begin. The ruthless creature that Alistair began spinning from his soul will look pathetic in comparison to what Abaddon will achieve, what she will make of the Righteous Man and supposed holy vessel of Michael. She will rearrange him until those pretty green eyes are no more, not stopping until his soul is twisted into the black smoke of an ally; the most important weapon of heaven puppeteered by her command. She will kiss him, finally, as Lilith did her, and present him to her king, not her first work but certainly her finest. The delicate slick of infant's blood will be nothing in comparison to extinguishing that spark in Dean Winchester's eyes.

There is much that Abaddon must do before she can indulge in such pleasures, though. First on her agenda is Crowley and the demise of his ridiculous bureaucracy. In her opinion, hell has been receiving far too many investment bankers in recent years and not enough good old-fashioned war criminals. The future has its perks, but she misses the nineteen forties sometimes.

She has an in with the military now, at least, and plans aplenty to extend it until she wields the kind of power a leader should. The world could learn a thing or two from North Korea in that respect—and North Korea, along with everyone else, will soon be learning from her.

Once the necessary resources are at her disposal, she will seek out the rings of the horsemen which open Lucifer's cage. The reports she's gathered suggest that the Winchesters were able to reopen the prison with ease once the seals had been broken just the once, so there should be no need to go through such a tedious process again.

Kings and queens have long been seen as representatives of their gods, and she will set hers free once and for all. She will not have to sift back through her oldest memories to rediscover the sound of her name as it screeches from His lips, because she will hear it in His generous thanks. She will not need to drag her soldiers from the cowardly dens where they hide from a blasphemous usurper of a king—no; Lucifer will call his own out into the open and all else will be razed to the ground. Abaddon will not even need to capture Dean Winchester herself, for she will offer Lucifer his brother and shall receive him as a gift in kind.

She remembers the kingdom of hell in all its glory, and she envisions that soon it will have both god and queen to defend it, while heaven weeps tattered angels and is guarded by a mere scribe in the neglectfulness of its creator.

Abaddon smiles and selects a darker shade of lipstick for the day ahead. She has already missed half a century of carnage; she has no intention of missing any more.

* * *

A/N:

I like to think that Abaddon is a Lucifer loyalist in the same way Meg and Ruby were, seeing him as a higher power rather than a threat to her own power. After all, she is one of Lucifer's knights, hand-picked by him, and she retains a more militarist approach to power which perhaps lends itself to wanting to restore the hierarchy to how it was.  
But we shall see.  
(There is also the fact that I doubt Lucifer will actually make a reappearance. But making the highly unlikely happen is what fic is for, isn't it?)


End file.
